Tim Marquitz - Dawn of War

The beast was engulfed in fire. At his cheek clung a tiny, crimson beetle that shimmered brightly. The licking tongues of flame that seemed to spew from the beetle’s pincers, flickered with malevolence as it tore at the Grol. Flesh seared to black beneath its touch. Cael was assailed by the foul stench of burnt fur as the girl pulled him down the alley.

As if realizing the creator of its torment intended escape, the Grol leapt forward seeming intent upon sharing its fiery demise. Its scream grew more ragged, sharper as it set its sights upon them. Cael and the girl stumbled backward into a wall, having lost sense of their direction when the flaming beast charged. Their backs against the unyielding stone, their arms entwined, there was nowhere to go. It loomed before them, enshrouded in dancing flames. The fury in its boiling glare was a palpable heat that struck in advance of its claws. Cael stared into its eyes and saw only death reflected there.

A heartbeat later, he saw nothing in its eyes.

Just feet from where they stood, the beast went rigid, its eyes rolling in their sockets. It twitched and crumpled into a burning heap. Out of the back of its skull a javelin protruded, its tail still trembling from the force of its throw.

Cael looked up to see bright yellow eyes staring at him from a smiling face encircled in dark gray fur. At the Pathra’s back stood Zalee, the awkward expression of her face clearly one of fury.

“You are a fool, Cael.” She strode rigid to his side, each step made with certain effort. “The fate of Ahreele rests in the hands of the relic-wielders; in your hands. What would we have done had you been slain?”

Cael met her weary glare, angry at her chastisement but yet he could understand her point, one he hadn’t taken into account when he’d rushed off to save the girl. He glanced at her as she clung to his arm in wide-eyed wonder, dirt smeared across her face. He looked back to Zalee. “I’m sorry,” he told her in an attempt to soothe her anger, though his tongue would not stop there, “but what purpose is there in saving Ahreele if we only intend to stand by and let its people die?”

Zalee drew herself up and stared at Cael. The Pathran emissary chuckled behind her. After a quiet moment, the Sha’ree shook her head, the slightest glimmer of a smile gracing her narrow mouth. “There is much to learn in this world, young Cael. I must keep in mind that I will not always be the one to teach.” She turned away. “Come. We must see the princess to safety.”

“I would have her come with us,” Cael said, gesturing to the girl.

Zalee glanced over her shoulder at her and then back to Cael. “Then be quick, the both of you.” She strode toward the street.

The Pathra waved them on. “Waeri,” he said, introducing himself. “Your courage has made this warrior proud.” He put his arms about their shoulders and ushered them away from the rank scent of the fallen Grol.

“I’m Ellora,” the young girl said, her voice cracking. She spared a grateful glance at the Pathra, then another for Cael. “Thank you.”

Cael could only nod, his voice having suddenly deserted him. They were at the wall a silent moment later, Zalee having found another rope to haul them up with.

Within just minutes they were over the wall and moving fast toward the sheltering shadows of the forest. Lathah burned at their backs, the sounds of battle growing ever dimmer. Cael cast a glance back just as one of the great spires came tumbling down, adding its dust to the whirls of black smoke that shrouded the city. He looked to the princess and her family, Ellora, and felt a pang of sorrow on their behalf, for he knew what it meant to lose his people and his home.

He whispered a prayer to Ree for all those that who remained behind. They would need the goddess now.

Lost in the fugue of battle, Arrin knew only the rhythm of his sword and dying cries of the enemy that fell about him.

He had meant only to delay the Grol as the Sha’ree ferried the princess and her family to safety, but the beasts seemed intent upon bringing him down, their eyes only on him. As they had on his return to Lathah, they seemed to hold back, as though they still intended to capture him, rather than kill. However, that hesitance did not stop their advance. There were far more than Arrin had imagined.

They flowed from the streets and alleyways and hurled themselves with fervor upon the merciless death of his sword. For every two he laid low, three burst from the murky smoke to claim their place. When a section of the Eighth’s wall crumbled without warning, the Grol spilled through en masse, filling the spaces to Arrin’s rear, cutting off their route of escape.

Kirah remained behind him to keep the beasts from his back. Unsure of her skills when they’d first engaged, Arrin had grown comfortable with her prowess. Aided by the power of the ancient Sha’ree bracers, she had added her own fair share of corpses to the growing mounds of dead Grol that lay in the streets about them.

He could hear her snarled grunts as she sunk the point of her spear into the furred flesh of yet another Grol that had slipped past. Her happy trills, which had emphasized each kill at the start, had faded, the excitement long worn into a mundane grind as the beasts continued to advance upon them.

Where there had initially been short lulls in the waves, the growing numbers of beasts in the ranks had stolen such pauses from them. Arrin swept left, certain Kirah would fill the gap, and set his blade upon the closest Grol. The gape of its throat cast but another coat of warm blood over Arrin’s arm and chest. He dripped crimson, the blood of the beasts a thick, wet blanket that hung upon him. The tart scent of bile and body fluids, the Grol coating the street in as much shit as blood, was stirred about him. It was a stench he could not quite ignore. He snorted it from his nose as he battled. Reddened streamers trailed over his mouth and chin.

His hilt slick with claret, he held his sword in a white-knuckled grip to keep it from slipping from his grasp. He cleaved the guts from another Grol as it closed, and set the point of his sword to work at the eyes of another. His ears rang with the effort, the sound of his breath loud inside his head.

He fought and fought, taking the head of a beast and neutering another, leaving the last behind to howl its loss until Kirah sent it to the grave. Severed hands spun in the air about Arrin, casting off reddened trails that whirled in their wake, their owners dead before their lost appendages struck the ground.

Arrin flowed under the song of the collar. The sting of its magic that flowed thick through his veins, drove him on, giving him the strength to carry on.

With no thoughts for anything but the destruction of his enemy arrayed before him, Arrin suddenly realized it was there no longer. He slowed his heart and brought his body to a halt. He stared out at the mass of Grol that snarled and snapped from a distance, their lines having drawn back beyond the reach of his sword. He heard Kirah at his back as he wondered at the beasts’ sudden loss of temerity.

They had not fled, but they had pulled back and now stood their ground, more of their number piling up in the ranks at their backs, but not advancing.

“Look,” Kirah spoke into his ear, her voice raw with exertion.

Arrin glanced over the heads of the gathered Grol and spied their ranks splitting at the rear. More of the Grol pushed their way through the lines, and even without seeing what threat they brought to bear, Arrin knew they were possessed of the Sha’ree relics. He could feel the energy of them.

He glanced over his shoulder at Kirah and could see that she too knew what approached. Her expression was one of weariness, its pall not hidden by the rebellious sneer plastered in red across her lips. She would not last much longer.